


Only Brushstrokes Away From Famous

by JennaWho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU Paintings, Awkward Dates, Awkward Kissing, Depression, Drugs, Early Death, M/M, Messy, Moons, Pasta, Rough Kissing, Secrets, Slow Romance, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicide Attempt, i think i had a fanmix to this, painter!lock, you think i would be better at tags...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaWho/pseuds/JennaWho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been painting since his early years. He even has the best artwork in London, sadly no one knows. The young artist struggles to stay hidden and keep his astonishing pieces of art secret when a young man finds him at work. Because of him, his paintings may become extremely famous and well-known.  </p><p>(Forgive me, I am not the best at summaries.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Brushstrokes Away From Famous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jinglebell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/gifts), [allonsys_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/gifts).



> To Jinglebell and Allonsys_girl. 
> 
> I hope you {and everyone else who reads this} really enjoy this because you guys are my favorite writers.  
> Thank you for living.

(It's not too much but I tried...)

 

The rattle of swift footsteps coming down through the small hallway made the paint-covered easels bump up and down in the main room of the flat. The quiet clinking of paintbrushes hitting the rim of empty glass jars filled the room, and so did the sun. It spilled onto the floor and rug through the thin curtains, giving the room a serene but dim light of yellowish-orange. It also made the perfect scene for the young painter that was firmly set in the kitchen. His name was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. This man possessed one of the finest talents. Painting.

Unfortunately, his astonishing paintings never got to see or feel the touch of the outside world. They were kept hidden in his flat for as long as Sherlock lived. He never showed anyone his work and he never intended to... Except for Ms. Hudson but her seeing all of the artist's paintings was a mistake. Or maybe not entirely...

Ms. Hudson was the true reason Sherlock knew what his paintings were being compared to. He's never seen other art. Just his works. He didn't feel like he quite needed to. And for Ms. Hudson, he was the best in London. Period. No arguments about it. It helped Sherlock out. Very much, it did. In fact, it's what kept him going after his breakdown in 2002.

A grumble escaped from Sherlock's mouth as he opened the cabinet door above him. His back and muscles ached from slouching in his chair the other night. He stayed up painting the moon until it was well-hidden behind the buildings. He thought it was quite a sight to see. The moon was almost gone, eaten up, in nothing but the thinnest "C" shape he's ever seen. It continued to shine through the selfish clouds all the way until he couldn't see it anymore. There was absolutely no way the painter would miss a beautiful and enchanting sight like that. Or so he thought...

That night, Sherlock only caught half of the moon. His work was always slow but worth it (for at least the one half he could catch). He would have to imagine the other half unless the wonderful crescent decided to show up at his window yet again.

 "No food..." Sherlock grunted closing the cabinet doors quickly and angrily. He ate the last of the food at lunch yesterday. He then remembered skipping dinner the night before to get a painting of the moon he adored. Oh, how he was so addicted to that sight. Nothing was better.  

He needed to go out for breakfast. Great. Time to go change into actual clothes. Yes, other than rags.

\---

Once he was all dressed and ready to go, he looked once more at the painting he had been working on the night before. The glowing crescent. It was half beauty, half blank. The dark blue and black sky swallowed up half of the canvas. The moon only stood a slim outline against the dark. The clouds skimmed among the edges and the front, making the painting look eerie. And the stars. They made the blank moon pop even more than usual. 

Sherlock glided his fingers over the outline of the moon and stood back, taking in the whole picture. He wasn't satisfied. He needed to work on it at breakfast. He needed to make it even better than it was before but still make it look like the sight he saw, still make it realistic. Without making it look like he was in "fairyworld".

But how?

Oh yes, Paper! 

 

The artist reached over to his desk and grabbed his small sketchbook and a pencil. He would draw at the cafe right below. Maybe practice drawing moons and crescents. He needed to perfect the center piece. It was the main point. The eye-grabber. He didn't want to screw it up. Plus, he knew he would love  this piece of work more than the rest of his others. It would be a shame if he messed it up.

Once he slid his pad and pencil into his jacket, he scuttled down the steps almost falling twice. He was going to eat at Speedy's. 

\---

Once he was seated, and got his order taken, he immediately pulled out his sketchbook. The gray light from the suddenly rainy afternoon outside came in and mixed with the ceiling lights above Sherlock's head. 

As soon as that pencil hit the paper, Sherlock's creativity and inspiration poured out as quick as a waterfall. He was thinking of so many things to draw. He had to actually tell himself not to draw anything  **but** the moon. 

After thirty minuets of constant drawing and eating, Sherlock felt un-easy. Uncomfortable.  Disturbed. He felt like he was being watched. It felt like that but mildly since he sat down in his seat. Only now did it upset him. 

He cocked his head to the side, making him look almost like an owl. To his surprise,he found a man looking straight at him. His eyes were locked. Not blinking. The artist may have found it disturbing at first, but now something eased it when he saw him. 

He was beautiful. Simply enchanting. He had blue eyes like the ocean. His hair was light blonde with numerous amounts of grey strands. His skin even glowed against the light which made him look like an angel. 

"Can I help you?" Sherlock scratched his head. The blonde man smiled and slowly made his way over in Sherlock's direction. 

"You're drawing. May I see?" He smiled without showing his teeth. His neat and elegant finger was pointing to the sketchbook that was placed firmly in Sherlock's hand. His eyes glimmered and sparkled. They were welcoming to the artist, making him feel like the man was trusting, loyal, and respectful.

"Sure." He finally said, handing the sketchbook to the man. "What's your name?" 

"John Watson." He said, flipping through the pages. His eyes skimmed quickly over every single page. His eyes widened to some, and he gasped in awe to most. Sherlock could hear his fingers sliding across the paper. 

John. Such a delightful name to say. So professional. It sounded almost like royalty to Sherlock. He would love to say that name over and over again until it bored him to even say it. (Like it would). 

"Yours?" 

"Sherlock Holmes." He smiled, playing at his food. He started to feel a bit weird in his stomach. It felt nice but also mildly uncomfortable to him. He obviously never felt this way in forever until now. _It's just stomach bugs.  
_

"You are absolutely incredible at drawing, Mr. Holmes." John sighed. He carefully handed the book back to the artist and pulled out a chair. Sherlock jumped from the sudden noise of the chair screeching against the tile floor.  

"I actually-" Sherlock couldn't finish. He looked up instead. John was sitting down in the chair across of him. His arms were crossed, on the table. He was sitting straight and his eyes were locked on Sherlock's. He was interested. Interested in Sherlock. 

"Hmm?"

"I paint. I am a painter, but I don't usually..."  _Enough! Stop giving yourself out to people you don't quite know!_

"Oh wow!" John smiled, cupping his hands on his cheeks. His elbows were supporting his light head. Sherlock moved his plate to the side and mirrored John, smiling. He felt something in the air. Energetic. Lively. They were so close to each other already and they've only known each other for about five minutes. 

_Want to show him? GO AHEAD AND DO IT! You can trust him! You saw it in his eyes..._

_No you idiot, no one sees your work except Ms. Hudson! Leave him alone!_

_DO IT!_

_LEAVE HIM!_ The voices in Sherlock's head were distracting. He shook his head to the side and closed his eyes. Long lashes against his cheeks. He gave out a heavy sigh.

"Was it something I said?" 

"No. Um... Wanna see.." Sherlock hesitated. He looked back at John. His eyes were shining and his smile was from ear to ear. "Wanna see my paintings?" 

 _Jesus Christ, Sherlock. What the hell is wrong with you today? YOU DON'T DO THESE THINGS!_ The voice cried in his head. He tried to distract himself with a smile. John's astonishing smile did it for him. 

"Of course! It must be beautiful!" 

"I hope it is..." 

\---

When Sherlock opened the door to his flat, he could smell the paint coming through his nostrils. So did John. The room was dimmed and the sun had left. It was funny to Sherlock on how the lighting of London changed so quickly. Sunny in the morning, and rainy in the afternoon. 

There were paintings everywhere. **EVERYWHERE!** On the floor, on shelves, chairs, and even in the fireplace. Most were covered in linen and stashed aside the wall wherever there was room. Unfinished paintings were still on dirty the easels. To John's surprise, the un-covered paintings he saw weren't even framed.

"Wow." John laughed. He didn't hesitate to step right on in and pick up a few pieces. "This is extraordinary!"

John had picked up one of Sherlock's first paintings ever. It was a delicately painted picture of a ripe, red apple. The shading and the shadows were perfect. The colors made John completely amazed. All those different shades of red! He never even knew such perfection could go into an apple. Just one simple apple. 

"Thanks.." Sherlock slowly walked through the door and stood closely beside him, looking at his own creations over his shoulder.

"You must be rich, selling all these paintings. How come I never heard of you before?" 

"Because I never put myself out into the public." The artist looked at John with a blank face. John gave Sherlock a confused look. 

"Why would you do that?" John laughed, looking back down at the apple painting.

"I don't know." Sherlock sighed as John put the painting back against the others. He looked around the room once more. Nothing caught his eye as he circled... but... oh. Wait. What's that? 

John put his vision back over what he saw. Half a painting. Half a finished painting of a thin, round shape? 

What the hell? 

Wait...

John went up closer to it. 

Oh, it's the moon. 

_Beautiful. Magnificently beautiful._

"Did you make this?" John dropped his jaw in awe. 

"Well, it is in my flat. So yes." Sherlock smiled as he moved over to the painting. "It's not finished yet." 

"You only got half of it." John smiled, brushing his fingers over the stars. 

"Quite so." 

"Amazing." 

"Okay you can stop complimenting now." Sherlock sighed, as he lifted the painting off the easel and removing it from John's hands. He looked at the painting, then back at John, then back at the painting. They surprisingly had a similarity. Something about the painting reminded Sherlock of John. They were both... faultless in a way.

John had the same shine as the stars did that were spread out over the painted canvas. His smile was the shape of the crescent. His eyes were the night sky, giving off twinkling glimmers.

"You remind me of something." 

"What is it?" John smiled. Sherlock looked down at the painting once more and gave a large grin. 


End file.
